


Ultradian Rhythm

by erobororo



Series: A Lesson in Domestication [1]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: (The reader is Haise), Eventual Smut, M/M, Mild Gore, Mukade (Half-Kakuja | "Kanekipede/Centineki"), POV Second Person, SasaKane, SasaMuka, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8719627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erobororo/pseuds/erobororo
Summary: You don’t know how he manifested, or how long it’s been since he did, but you’re more than certain he’s not a mere hallucination. How lucky you are, to have the real thing grip your neck in the night rather than in a dream. — [UPDATED]





	1. Transcendental

**Author's Note:**

  * For [banchas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/banchas/gifts).



> [UPDATE AS OF MAY 2018] I am revisiting this fic! That means:
> 
> \- More chapters  
> \- Story overhaul  
> \- Timeline begins earlier with new intro chapters
> 
> The next update you see will have the chapters "wiped" and completely started over, so don't be alarmed. I am not deleting anything for good and what I've established will still be there once I refresh the fic. Stay tuned!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was like something skittering along a hard surface."

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heavy.

Hot and heavy.

Your comforter, your head, the very air around you—it’s all too hot and heavy and troublesome to ignore. Your eyelids flutter frantically as your eyes fight to open. If it weren’t for the undeniable pain from straining your eyes, you would believe this to be just another restless night. Another agonizingly long nightmare filled with illusions too vivid to discern from actuality, until your body jolts awake from the jarring buzz of alarms at your bedside. Then you would sigh an exhausted breath of relief and go about your day, any trace of night terrors quickly fading away into an afterthought. But this time it’s too convincingly tangible, pushing and pulling you through reality like a rapid cycling of sleep and awake. You know that you are lying in a real bed on your back, limbs positioned in no way good for you, with your head turned to the side to face an extra set of real pillows. You know that the material clinging to your skin is real, and that the softness of its threads brushing your calves is real. You can even move a finger on command.

So why, then, does the heat and weight upon you feel unreal? Why does the way the room spins and flickers feel more like looking through a pinhole lens than something of your own eyes? Why does your head refuse to turn to face the object that must be holding you down?

—What if it’s not an object?

Dread floods your body with the persuasion of intrusive thoughts. Against your better judgement you panic, fearful of a dangerous presence in the room you hadn’t felt until now. Suddenly you’re hyper aware of your own erratic breathing, and it’s never been so loud, so unappealing. It compels you to close the passageways to your lungs, to deny anymore air to expel, or else. Or else. You know the only way to justify your actions is with a firm “or else,” just like you know you are in your room in the Chateau, and that this isn’t real, and that you’ll be okay. But if there is even a slight chance it might be real, and that you won’t be okay, you need to fight back, you need do whatever you can to wake up. Or else.

 

"H̳̳̞̼ͦͬ̆ͬͫ̈́a̝͎̻̜̹͒̌ͫi̮͕̥̫̥ͩs̴͔͓ě̵͐̅̐."

 

The presence speaks in a garbled whisper so sudden it forces you to exhale, and your heart nearly jumps out with your breath. The sounds are otherworldly, carried out on a nonexistent wind as it swarms around you. It speaks no real words but the threat in its tone is perfectly clear. Your body remains tied down by invisible tendrils you’re now positive belong to it, but your head still won’t turn. What would come about meeting eye-to-eye with it? In an instant the presence is behind you, next to you, on top of you, surrounding you—nothing will let you understand where or what it is. You can only make out the raspy, unintelligible whispers that drum through your ears, now overpowering any other sound from before. The presence is there, but intangible; it presses against your outlined body but makes no contact with your skin. There is no temperature and no texture. There is movement but no advancement.

 

"G̸̗͔͔̠i͕̜̻̠̪̓̏̎͒̋̅v̴͍̙̘̌͊̍͂̉͑ͅeͨͤ̔ͮ̄͗̎͘.̙̪͑́̚͜.̫̗͚̣͇̮ͭ̊͑͛ͯ̎̽.͔̱͇̼̅̓̔m̧͖̹̬̰͚̹̅̇ͤe̱̟̫̜.̰̯̪̤̤̻͕̈́̐̿.̀.̠̱͓̲̘̎̑̋̓͊̍"

 

It calls your name ad nauseum between inhuman noises, words just short of being comprehensible, each one louder than the next. A puff of air washes over your neck, closer and closer. The room becomes increasingly distorted and warm, and loud, and unbearable and all you want is to escape before it consumes you, before it envelopes its entire being around you and steals whatever’s left of you so you can never return to the Chateau or the CCG or the pitiful short life you wish you could hold onto. Giving up isn’t an option, but how do you run away when you’re paralyzed, unable to even cut off your limbs for freedom? How do you wake from a dream when your eyes are wide open?

The room shifts stranger still, melding into something unusually familiar, but certainly not your bedroom. Inky geometric patterns, sterile furnishings, and harsh fluorescent lights inch into your view, offset with a tinge of home: your beloved bookshelf, your cluttered desk, a mirror you’re too petrified to peek into. Your heart is in your throat, stuck with the air you refuse to let go lest you succumb completely to this trap. Attempts to speak will be thwarted; you don’t try, because you just know. You have to keep fighting. Struggling. Pushing and pulling your consciousness’ limits like you’ve always done.

Pressure against your side startles you enough that your lungs deflate, throat burning with no sound to express the pain. Something slicks thick and moist against the underside of your jaw and it’s the final breaking point. Every muscle and every bone in your exhausted body aches in struggle as the voice becomes so deafeningly loud you think you might go mad from that alone. Your eyes dance wildly all over the room until there’s nothing but TV static imagery, and with a final gasp for air you break free, snapping your head up to finally get a glimpse of—

“Rank one Sasaki.”

—Akira.

Oh, that’s trouble. Probably more trouble than whatever lapse of time and space you were just subjected to. Again. But at least now this means it wasn’t real, just a quick travel through the past at the expense of your present. While your vision slows its rolling, you tap your thigh to speed up the grounding process, taking mental note of different sensors and objects: cotton, brown, coffee, paper, cologne, glasses. All there. You go down the line of what’s in front of you, sometimes twice to be safe. It takes another agitated prompt from Akira before you clear your throat and make quick glances to your peers on the way to your superior, thankful to the gods that you hadn’t fallen asleep and muttered something foul instead. Well, it’s not so much a certainty as it is the best logical conclusion you can make given the limited time you have before resuming life back on Earth. Regardless, the lingering sensations of such a trip feel too real; even in a heat-less office in the middle of winter, your skin burns hot enough that a bead of sweat traces your spine. Hopefully no one notices the uncertainty in your step or the unnerved look on your face. The room is still coming together in pieces, and you’re pretty sure people’s faces aren’t meant to look like narutomaki.

Clarity serves you a bit better as you approach the meeting room's whiteboard, any and all terrorizing thoughts pushed to the back of your mind to make space for what was needed of you from your coworkers. You’ve become quite adept at bouncing back from these episodes, though you’re not sure if you should be proud of that or disturbed.

You stand tall at the whiteboard, facing your colleagues head-on against their unimpressed stares. You reflexively grab a marker to begin outlining your presentation, ignoring the impulse curiosity to one day look at the figure that haunts your dreams. And the scornful glare from Akira that’s drilling holes into your head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Maman!”

You come home to a distraught Saiko, guessing the night you finally get to unwind in peace won’t be this one. You barely have a moment to put away your belongings before the tiny girl clings to your waist. As adorable as she is, you’re sometimes shook by how outward her emotions can be.

“What’s wrong?” you ask a bit too listlessly, reflexively planting a foot behind you to prevent stumbling.

You hear a sniffle. Oh dear. “In the room, in Maman’s room, something loud.” Another sniffle.

You pet her bedhead-ridden hair, readjusting your weights to slowly encourage her away from the door and over to the living room couches. She obliges, albeit ungracefully, and plops down without leaving your chest. As you move to speak again, Mutsuki walks over from the kitchen looking anxious though noticeably more composed. Your eyes meet, and wordlessly you inquire more information.

“It wasn’t just loud, it was...unpleasant,” he starts, picking at a button on his shirt. “Very unpleasant. Enough to wake Saiko-chan from a nap.”

“That’s serious,” you half-joke. Saiko lightly punches your sternum.

“Saiko is always serious…” she trails off on a whine, inching away from you in order to wipe her eyes.

“It was like something skittering along a hard surface,” Mutsuki adds, which, although noteworthy, doesn’t help much.

You hand Saiko a tissue box, casting gazes between the two pupils. “Well, it must not have been much of a worry if neither of you called me.” You feel a pang of guilt for that, but you have to stay true to your Saserious promise.

“We were, but then Maman walked in. Saiko swears.”

Mutsuki remains silent, tossing his gaze to the floor. He looks uncomfortable, and not out of fear. It troubles you.

You pat your legs and promptly stand up with a smile. “Probably just another vermin problem, right?”

What you won’t do for your team.

Saiko hums in agreement, hopping off the couch with renewed energy. Mutsuki shifts his attitude as well, if only to better serve the situation.

“I’ll take care of it.” You make your way to the stairs before realizing there are two less bodies present. “Where—”

“Training,” Mutsuki answers abruptly.

Saiko sarcastically repeats “training” to herself. You disregard the implications and continue up the steps.

Mutsuki and Saiko stay behind as you reach the top and flick on the light. Nothing in the corridor, no aforementioned skittering. You hope it stays that way, continuing forward with light and cautious footsteps just to be safe. When you near your bedroom, noise registers in your ears, though you can’t quite put a word to it. It just sounds alive, undoubtedly growing louder the closer you get. But once you reach the door, the sound stops with your footing, and it feels as if your heart stops, too. You take hold of the doorknob, slowly, reluctantly, and push the door with as much distance in between as your arm will allow. You stretch to turn the light on from outside and get a better glimpse of your room—still nothing, although it does seem a bit colder than usual. . Once relieved by your initial inspection, you deem it safe enough to walk inside, pausing to take mental note of the state of your workspace. Everything’s much too disorganized for your taste, brought on by the recent spike in latenight investigative paperwork, but at least everything’s still in tact. No intruders, vermin or otherwise. Saiko must’ve had a bad dream and woke up in such a frenzy that she and Mutsuki believed it to be from your room. You can’t help but chuckle at the thought of their concern coming from something so benign, but you owe it to them to ease their minds, so you decide to make your way out.

Before you can make it to the door, before you can even register it, something horrid blocks your way, hanging above the doorframe and arching so disgustingly backwards it creeps its entire face and chest into your view. There are reds, and purples, and whites, and spider-like veins, and twitching meaty tendrils about to close in on you and you try to yelp, try to initiate some sort of instinctual reaction, but it slams the door shut and pounces you to the ground. The tendrils are now fully wrapped around you, and like the nightmarish hallucination from before, you can’t will your body to break free. But unlike it, you face the creature in full, having nowhere else to look but into its piercing eyes. Everything is pulsating, spinning, you feel like you’re going to be sick if it weren’t for the muscle clenched firmly around your mouth. You can’t even muster the composure to close your eyes, horrified by the recognition of its face. _His_ face. His wicked, smiling face behind an even more wicked mask.

Mukade, the aptly named half-kakuja that stripped Kaneki Ken of his public identity.

A million and one questions bombard your mind as you try to fight fire with fire and draw your kagune. You manage to pierce his, but it’s ultimately no use. He has his kagune layered against you so tightly it would take all your strength just to escape, let alone attack. You’re completely helpless and you don’t know how to accept it.

“Sensei! Are you alright?”

Mutsuki. Will he try to investigate and save you? The thought is a light in the dark immediately overcast: his life would be in even more danger than yours.

You’re about to bite at the kagune on your mouth, do anything in hopes to yell and stop the younger member from approaching your room, but the half-kakuja intervenes, shushing you with a smile before tilting his head toward the door.

“It was nothing, I’m fine.”

Your heart sinks in disbelief. He speaks in a tone all-too similar to yours, with two breaks in his voice you’re hoping will let Mutsuki know something’s wrong enough to call backup. But it works, and Mutsuki gives a shaky affirmation before heading back down. You hear pittering on the wooden steps grow quiet until there’s nothing but the two of you. Mukade's face returns to yours, mouth open with crooked ends.

“We’re very fine.”

He continues to hold you, inspecting you like a child with a new toy, but he doesn’t harm you, though you’re certain he will eventually. Isn’t it in his nature? That’s what all the files say. You try to blink him away, shutting your eyes hard enough to see lightning, but when you open them it’s the same story you’ve been rejecting all along.

This isn’t a dream.

At best, Mukade is a lucid vision, spurred on by sleep deprivation and the usual symptoms of your illnesses. At worst, he’s as real as your fear, manifested by something you have no way of understanding nor explaining to anyone.

You try to calm your breathing, though it’s a bit difficult when you have the equivalent of what feels like ten boa constrictors crushing your lungs. He seems to realize this, perhaps even sympathize with it, as he loosens his grip without letting go. The hold his gaze has over you sends a bigger warning not to retaliate than any of his words could, so you comply to his insinuations. Maybe gaining his trust will give you the upper hand along the way. You’ll latch onto any thought that will make sense of your situation.

The loss of pressure on your chest allows you to draw your first full breath in hours, and for some reason it causes him to vocally react. He speaks at you, practically chirping, but of course you can’t understand. If he wanted you to, he would have performed his little trick from before. For now, you’re stuck relying on body language and all the hints you can decipher. Given the mass of kagune piled against the door, you already rule out leaving anytime soon. But you don’t want to spend the rest of your life on the floor, so you dip your head backwards, toward your bed. If you can deduce from vague motions, maybe he can, too.

Mukade's smile disappears as he continues to stare beyond you. Too many seconds pass before everything around you opens up, and you scramble backwards to the bed. You’ve never been happier to be free again. Well, half-free, since he maintains minimal space between you by creeping forward. Kagune still hold the door while other sharp tendrils float, ready to prod you. He crawls to the foot of the bed and remains there on all fours, fixing his unnerving eyes on you with the faintest trail of a grin. The adrenaline from your fight-or-flight instincts wear off and you’re left with a queasy aftertaste, not knowing what else to do besides recline on your pillows. He lowers his upper body as if to mimic yours, gaze unmoving. He breathes evenly, exists quietly, and it contrasts your disheveled state so jarringly it almost makes you angry. What does he want? Why won’t he give you reason to attack?

Why you, every time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the night wreaks havoc on your mind and body. Upon each need to leave the room, whether it be personal business or a Quinx request, you’re allowed a few moments to deal with it until having to come back and deal with _him_. Each and every time you’re permitted to leave, he ensures your return, snatching you up with his kagune so swiftly you’ve forgotten what shock is. However, curiously, his force becomes subdued with every action until you barely feel like you’ve been picked up at all. On the sixth occurrence, he brings you directly to the bed, and just when you tempt the fantasy of being tucked in to wake up from this nightmare, he drops you several inches in the air. You can’t take much more of this.

The sky has long since grown dark, faded strokes of blue tinting its edges. All you want is to sleep this away. Sleep the nightmare and unreality away. But he’s still there. Always there in the corner of your eye.

He approaches the bed again, finally removing any part of himself from the doorframe. You try to ignore the way he looks at you. All you can do is lie there and beg.

“Please.”

Your eyes burn. It's so cold.

“Please...”

You don’t know if your plea reaches him. All you know is the way his face twists in the closest thing to hurt as you can describe. And then, under your closing eyes, he vanishes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the dead of night, you hear crying. It carries your dreams until morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning trip sequence is based off real stuff I go through (sleep paralysis, flashbacks, and hallucinations) as well as the strange reality slips Haise had in canon, so if it was disorienting...good! :)
> 
> As always, I am open to critique and questions.
> 
> Additional chapters (and smut) coming soon~


	2. Vesperal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We found you on the floor, Maman."

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The beauty of full-time work is that there are so many ways to keep busy you forget about your daily woes. Spending ten hours a day almost every day of the week at the CCG makes it difficult to stay in your head too long, especially when a large portion of your work involves social interaction. What diminishes this beauty, however, are all the nightly disturbances taking such a toll on your body that you’re not sure what’s real and what’s not, so you have no other choice but to focus on it. Every now and then amid your engrossed research you hear Mukade’s laughter, catch the tail end of his kagune in your peripherals, even feel his hands scratching at your sides—but when you confront the taunts, they vanish like smoke and mirrors.

Your unwillingness to put down a book certainly doesn’t help, either. Despite being ahead of deadlines, you resolve to utilize your free time holed up in a vacant office rummaging through piles of documents. From case files dating pre-war mythos to incidents as recent as yesterday, you record anything that may even remotely help your situation.

It’s been several days yet Mukade still shows up snapping at your feet, however sporadic, like it’s his job to pester you. Maybe he takes holidays, too. You’re hoping his is this weekend, extended indefinitely. It's been difficult enough dealing with everything in the following hours of his appearance—swatting away a barrage of his taunts, narrowly convincing the Quinx nothing’s wrong, receiving harsh markups from your superiors for tardiness—any more might break your limit. The Quinx have their concerns, but they all learned to stop questioning when all inquiries were met with an asserted "Yes, everything is fine." How none of their heightened senses have picked up his presence is a wonder in itself, which has led you to your current frazzled state of digging through any and every folder to make sense of the phenomenon.

After your notepad becomes of spotted black mess of writings, you move on to the plastic encasing labeled with those three kanji that still give you an eerie chill. Unfortunately, there exists no accessible library on him for you to answer every question plaguing your mind, only a single binder with the bare minimum of information. From what little is afforded on the double-sided sheets, Kaneki Ken, with all his silly nicknames, was a powerful renegade ghoul that caused the CCG quite a bit of trouble. You wouldn’t guess it from his photo alone, though. Any mention of his dangerous nature pales in comparison to the emboldened "ERASED" stamped next to "Current Status," and you take this as a figurative rather than literal meaning. After all, he no longer poses a threat to society, and no ghoul in the same predicament as he would have walked away alive. It’s not an ending that relieves you, as you thumb the photo of a young man who comes off as more of a troubled student than a criminal, but you place your trust in the CCG.

The remaining information doesn’t offer much. It only reaffirms what you’ve already studied, and at the end of the day you are you and he is he. Sasaki Haise is not Kaneki Ken, and Kaneki Ken is not Sasaki Haise. The both of you are half-ghouls of incredibly different caliber, and it would be an insult to your character to imply otherwise. The only shared traits you cannot ignore are appearances. It’s easy to understand how someone might compare the two of you, but upon closer inspection, nothing else checks out. Different birthdays, different ages, different heights—you go down the list, and only appearances are shared, and even that’s arguable. His hair is a completely different color and volume. And his clothing is too lax and plain for your taste. And his face is much too round, too full of baby fat. A trained observer such as yourself can easily notice that there are too many differences, though it’s possible the surface similarities are what accounted for you learning about him so quickly in the first place. In truth, it was Arima who made the connection when you consulted him about the nightmares in the wake of your career and pointed you to the binder with the half-ghoul’s name on it. But to outright say you are the same is absurd. Kaneki no longer exists. Either one of you is a clone— _ha!_ —or there are mysteries to the ghoul world you’ve yet to discover.

Which brings you back to square one: how can a ghoul manifest from nothingness? Can a ghoul be strong enough to create a living being from its own kagune? Such a thing is unheard of. Well, it is true that especially gifted and powerful ghouls have been known to release their kagune like drones, free in all but sentience, but none have been recorded to become living organisms. They’re just highly concentrated masses of RC cells. Mukade exhibits all things counter to your understanding of ghouls, both as one and apart from one. Ghouls can only create other ghouls in the same way humans create other humans. Traditionally, at least. The process behind the Quinx is different in this case, akin to a prosthetic limb or heart transplant. They are the same person before and after. Whatever is going on with Mukade is a matter of reanimation, of the dead alive. Maybe even the supernatural, like one of Saiko’s horror manga about mangled and broken spirits conceiving themselves from pure animosity.

“That’s worse than the clone idea,” you catch yourself muttering aloud.

You don’t know where else to go. What you thought was an extensive collection of information is proving to be insufficient. If you as a half-ghoul cannot formulate a reason, then decades-worth of writing from the perspective of humans is useless. Like the deus ex machina of your beloved stories, you’ll just have to go with it for now, hoping the same mechanic will solve your problems. In binds like this you usually seek out Arima but, no, that would be too much trouble. He’s far too busy and probably not in the building anyway. Perhaps...

“I was wondering where you ran off to.”

The Earth is never soft when you crash back down to it.

“Ah, good afternoon, Akira-san,” you manage through a skittish laugh, sloppily recovering from jumping out of your skin and tossing papers about. You keep your line of sight away from the older investigator lest she chide you for, well, everything. “Sorry, this is just—”

“Sasaki,” she interrupts with soft assertion, but you’re too fixated on your personal mission to slow down.

You struggle to gather the material into a tidy pile as you indirectly address her. “It’ll be cleaned up at once, I promise. I was merely occupying the space during my break. Oh, I’m actually glad you’re here, Akira-san. There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Sa-sa-ki,” she pauses on each syllable in tandem with her drawing footsteps.

You finally get the last piece of unkempt paper into a neat stack in your arms and almost slam yourself into her completely unaware, still reluctant to meet her eyes despite her face being just centimeters apart from yours.

It’s downright foreboding how her presence towers over you.

“Take the rest of the day off.”

Okay, now you _have_ to look at her.

“But my shift isn’t over for another four hours.”

She places her hands on your shoulders and squeezes firmly. A little bit scarily, considering what her punch is capable of.

“You and your team have today and tomorrow off. Go home.”

When you hesitate, she sighs, dropping her arms into a fold across her chest and giving you a look like she most definitely expected this.

“It’s an order from upper management. You’d be smart to take it.” She raises her eyebrows, and the act is as enunciated as her speech.

Interdepartmental gossip tells of signature Mado Moves that no one can win against. You figure this is one of those, not bothering to question if the order has anything to do with Thursday’s "coffee incident," and hastily nod in agreement before readying your belongings. With a smile she walks out ahead of you, saying nothing of the disorganized room nor your peculiarities.

The search for your squad is easier than the previous search for answers. They’ve all convened in the large break room not far down the hall. Juuzou and Hanbee join them, and all but Saiko and Urie partake in conversation. However, whereas Urie eats in solitude and willful silence with a book, Saiko busies herself with a handheld game balancing a mush-filled spoon between her teeth. She doesn’t even call out to you when you approach the table, too absorbed in a clearly intense battle.

“Sorry to interrupt,” you begin, waving to Juuzou and Hanbee before dipping your head in the Quinx’s direction. “How is everyone?”

Shirazu laughs through his nose, swallowing a piece of melon bread. “Better than you, Sassan! Those dark circles are getting bigger than your eyes.”

You shift weight to one leg and expel a quick breath, not having enough energy to retort.

Mutsuki unravels his own exasperated face and faces you, light sandwich in hand. “Sensei, what brings you here?”

“Good news, actually,” you answer, though your tone says otherwise.

“Is it anything on our current investigation?” Urie asks, much to your surprise.

“Um, no”—He goes back to his book—“but we have today and tomorrow off. So that means a nice three-day weekend for us. Ah, sorry Juuzou-kun.”

The young prodigy shoos away your apology with a half-eaten donut. “Don’t be. I love it here,” he says, which may be sarcasm, but it’s never easy to tell.

“Well, we’ve barely made a dent in this food. Why don’t you take a load off?” Shirazu offers, tapping the space next to him.

Your senses aren’t dull enough to shake off the stench of mediocre company food, but you push through the distraction and make your way over. For them.

As soon as you settle into the uncomfortable bench, Saiko emits a shrill " _Ya-hoo_ " which is, somehow, still not enough to restore power to your empty battery of a body.

“I cleared level fifteen-ten with a double-s ranking and a score high enough to unlock the final weapon which will let me blast through the remaining challenge and finally declare one-hundred-percent completion!”

She inhales triumphantly and, without skipping a beat, whips around to address you. “What are we going to do during our mini break, Maman?”

You blink, unable to answer against those bright, multicolored orbs of hers. What is there to do? You've barely been given enough time to process the order, let alone plan the weekend. With Mukade likely to show up again, will you even be afforded a minute to yourself? To your team? A completely new weight slings around your neck as you attempt to answer.

“What do you want to do?” There's a mild sting at the corners of your eyes before you realize you've flatout yawned in her face.

“Saiko wants you to sleep.”

Stifled laughter encircles the table, and you can’t help but join in. You’ll take every gentle moment you can get.

“Yes, I can certainly do that.”

Shirazu bumps you with his wrist, small crumbs falling in its wake. “Right after you make us dinner. And I mean _dinner_ dinner, not Cup Noodle with some egg on top.”

You raise up your hands in defense, hiding from Urie that you notice his leer dashing to your side of the table.

“You got me. I haven’t exactly been…” You can’t find the words.

“At least the weekend will give you some time to recoup, Sensei,” Mutsuki states, glance floating somewhere between your nose and jaw. Saiko extends her arm across the table to Mutsuki who, maintaining gaze, hands over the last of his chips in an act so smooth it must be a ritual they practice every meal. “Let us handle some of the paperwork while you rest.”

You can’t believe it’s come to this.

“Ah, no, no, that’s not necessary, Mutsuki-kun. ‘Upper management order’ says it’s time for some time off, so let’s do our best to keep work at work.”

Even though you don’t want to. Don’t plan to.

“Good enough for me,” Shirazu replies behind a napkin.

“No problem for Saiko,” the girl adds, though "girl" probably isn’t accurate considering she’s closer in age to you than to her fellow pupils.

Urie mumbles noncommittally, eyes closing with the pages of his book. “I’ll return to the Chateau later tonight. I have something to take care of while I’m still here.” And with that, he makes his way toward Matsuri’s office. 

Hanbee peers on with his usual troubled skepticism, ready to speak, but Juuzou yawns it away and urges him back to work. For a coworker regarded so strangely, he sure can read the air better than most.

As the last nibble is accounted for and all trash is disposed of, you finally round up your team into the company car, just a little bit grateful Urie is staying behind since the car is, admittedly, too small to safely fit everyone. The bulk of the drive is a dissociative blur, senses wavering in and out of numbness and hyperfocus. One minute you can map out every detail in the Quinx’s hypothesis on Urie's whereabouts, and the next you can hardly identify the sounds coming from them as real words. You just want to get home, in one piece, with peace of mind.

Luckily the roads are as clear as the early evening sky, and you roll up to the Chateau safe and sound, hardly a half-hour past. As usual Saiko and Shirazu make a beeline for the door, unlocking it with hardly any finesse and promptly occupying the living room. Games, probably. Mutsuki stays behind, helping to carry your belongings.

“You don’t really need to, Mutsuki-kun.”

“I know,” he replies bluntly, face twisting as he sees your surprised smirk. “Ah-ah, I mean, I _want_ to. You deserve it, Sensei.”

This boy is too good for his own good.

You thank him, allowing him to walk ahead of you and plop your things on the end table by the genkan. You step inside, arms free of any baggage. Your shoes slip off, your slippers slide on, and your shoulders ease back with your coat. Mutsuki is already starting the coffee machine. The air quickly fills with a rich aroma that manages to wash over you and make you forget everything, just for a moment. Just long enough for the beans to roast, for a cup to be made in your name, for the younger investigator to hand over your portion and bring you out of your stupor.

Maybe you’ll hold off on responsibilities until tomorrow.

You sit at the kitchen table, Mutsuki adjacent, as your team goes on about how they’re going to spend their weekend. Saiko wants to bake with you, which usually means preparing the whole thing yourself while she acts as a very generous taste-tester. Mutsuki anticipates helping you with your CCG work, for which you have to remind him that no work is allowed from the Quinx this weekend. Shirazu, for the first time since you tossed him across the training room, wants to spar with you. He rattles off about wanting to show what he’s learned from Urie and redeeming himself. You guess his pride is at stake.

“Wow, I feel like such a celebrity,” you say with a chuckle. “Anything that doesn't involve me?”

Saiko is the first to answer. “Sleep” is all she offers.

“Depends on the sparring,” Shirazu posits.

Mutsuki lifts his head pensively, sipping from his small mug. “Honestly, I don’t know yet. Never had this much freedom before.” He giggles, and it’s absolutely infectious. Mutsuki rarely cracks jokes, even ones laden with truth.

“Well,” you start once the laughing subsides, putting your cup down and walking over to the pantry, “we can do something together tonight at least.” You grab two aprons and turn to Shirazu, who’s already flipped around to beam at you. “After dinner, of course.”

“Yes!” he exclaims.

“Shirazu-kun, you will be sous-chef.”

“Aww, come on, Sassan!” he whines, lowering his controller. “Y’know I can’t cook for shit.”

You fling one of the smocks his way with a grin. “Everyone starts somewhere.” He returns a scowl, yet still affixes the apron around his head like a hair-wrap. It’s endearing.

“Maman, what can Saiko do?”

“Hmm, you can handle dessert.” The squeal Saiko releases is both adorable and painful. “Just nothing too complicated, okay?”

“Roger!” She imitates military gesture before jumping back into her game.

“We’ll get started in a few minutes. Mutsuki-kun, you can help me prep the ingredients.” You nod to Mutsuki, tying your apron around tight.

He chugs his coffee, face expressive and full of determination as he hops behind you to the fridge. “What are we having?”

You rummage through, pulling out pork and vegetables. “Katsu kare!”

Mutsuki seems thrilled, shuffling to the pantry to grab necessary items while the other two cheer in approval. You feel a renewed energy.

You arrange all cooking utensils and ingredients in proper fashion as Mutsuki peels potatoes. He toils slowly, methodically, which works in your favor since you finish dicing carrots and onions by the time he’s divided each potato into near-perfect cubes. With a pot full of vegetables ready to boil, you call Shirazu over to handle trimming pork fat and decorating the clean portions for frying. Even Saiko tiptoes her way to the rice cooker, emptying a generous heap of grain into the machine. She and Mutsuki step away, allowing you and sous-chef to deliberate.

“Uhh, how do I know it’s ready?” Shirazu asks.

“When it looks like something you’d want to eat,” you answer.

Shirazu gawks at you incredulously, lip twitching upward to reveal some of his jagged teeth.

“Sorry, sorry,” you sigh. “It’ll be a nice golden-brown.” That’s how most meat works, isn’t it?

He blinks, poking the sizzling meat with the end of his saibashi. “Huh. I guess it needs some more time, then.”

You hum in confirmation, narrowly avoiding awkwardness, and proceed to wash your hands. “Now all you need to take care of is the curry.”

“Oh. Right.”

He reaches for the box of curry roux, caked flour and egg flaking off his hand onto the floor. You have to remove yourself from the area and down some of your coffee before you start cleaning up after him. Once you can ignore the distasteful thoughts of messy disarray, you begin setting the table, keeping tabs on the kitchen situation as you go. Box curry is much easier to manage than authentic curry, but with Shirazu at the helm it's better to be safe than sorry. Mutsuki asks him if he can cut the pork cutlets, but permission is denied on account of “sous-chef responsibilities.” Saiko checks on the rice, then the freezer, for reasons unknown, and beounces over to the chair in front of you.

“ _Tada_!” Shirazu yawps, thrusting a plate in front of your face. Your eyes grow wide; none of the cutlets are equal in size, the ratio of each component is horribly unbalanced, and the plate is almost dripping off the side with gravy—but for what it’s worth, it came together well enough, and you couldn’t be prouder.

You peer up at him, then to the others, unable to keep your mouth from stretching ear to ear. “Well done, everyone.”

Shirazu smirks, finishing the rest of the portions as Saiko helps you at the table.

“Y’know,” the newly appointed sous-chef says with arms full of plates, which almost makes you panic, “I think this is the most I’ve ever seen you work, Saiko.”

She laughs airily, clearly unfazed by the mockery, and cuts him a look sharp enough to kill. He backs off.

With every plate and utensil accounted for, and every Quinx sitting comfortably in place, the feasting begins. You gaze intently, noting their apprehensive approaches to the first bite: Saiko prods the meat around the plate before lifting it into her mouth, Mutsuki cautiously brings a cleanly piled assortment to his mouth, and Shirazu munches on a spoonful of food only after the others do the same. You sip on your cooled coffee, watching their faces light up one by one and become chubby cheeked with bigger helpings.

“ _Shiraginissooommm_ ,” Saiko trails off, words slurred by mush. She gives up talking properly and instead shovels more into her mouth.

“Mh-hm!” Mutsuki hums trying to speak, swallowing eagerly. “It’s really tasty.”

Shirazu furrows his brows, covering his mouth with a napkin. “Aw c’mon, it ain’t _that_ good.”

“But it’s true. You did a good job.”

“Mutsuki-kun is right,” you vouch, “he and Saiko would never lie about a poor meal, or else I’d know about it by now.” You tilt your head at Mutsuki and wink. “You all did a good job. I don’t think you’ll need me anymore.”

“No!” Saiko yelps in protest. “Saiko needs your cooking, too, Maman.”

You flick your hands down in front of her. “Just joking, I’ll keep cooking. But it’d be nice if you all made some meals together from time to time, right?” They murmur positively, so you take it as a “Yes.”

Delighted by the outcome of things, you finish your coffee and lean back, fully at ease. Your pupils go about their meal, finishing up and moving to the sink in a lapse of time you can’t even keep track of. Evening transitions into night before you can sense it. Time is now measured more by happenings than feelings. Not even the display on clocks can convince you.

Midway through cleaning, Saiko stomps to the front of the room with confidant fists planted on her sides.

“Team, there is a mandatory movie tonight! Dessert will be provided accordingly,” she proclaims. Turns out she already made dessert the night prior, storing cake balls in the freezer. You’ve been so immersed in your “bug problem” that you never noticed.

Her announcement prompts Shirazu and Mutsuki to speed up at the sink, ungraciously putting up wares to dry. The four of you promptly line the living room furniture closer together, adorning them with a heap of blankets and pillows.

“Maman, I need your help,” Saiko calls playfully from the fridge. It’s impressive how she managed to sneak over unnoticed.

You unfurl the last blanket atop one of the couches and stroll across the hardwood floor to her side. “Yes, Saiko-chan?”

She snickers, whirling around with a tray of cake balls neatly wedged into small holes by their patterned sticks. “Nothing. Just wanted to chat.”

The question you sound out isn’t even a word, just a confused grunt. She leans in. You have to bend over to get at ear level.

“The truth is, I’m worried about you, Maman.” You’re about to refute the concern but she continues too swiftly. “All your work is affecting breakfast, and dinner, and even midnight snacks!”

“Is that so,” you reply flatly, forcing yourself not to jeer at her for changing what you thought was a serious matter into more antics.

“Mh-hm. It’s like you’re not there, even in the food, and I miss all the flavors. Maman’s flavors. So please don’t put everything on yourself alone, okay? Saiko and everyone are here for you.”

How do you follow up from that? You find yourself yet again caught in the crosshairs of her colorful irises, unable to give her the answer she wants. All you can do is pat her head as you’ve done countless times before, and smile. She grins, whipping around and planting herself on the couch to disperse the cake balls amongst the other two. You sit with them, gazing past the movie starting on the TV. Shirazu fires off about this “dramactedy” (drama-action-comedy), but the finer details fail you. You’re too busy fighting off a descent into self-loathing.

The four of you occupy the furniture evenly, giving each other enough room so no one has to squish in place. You settle on an armrest of a single cushion chair while the others spread across two couches. A faint buzz from the coffee trickles into your cheeks and fingertips. You might as well give the movie a shot, even if the medium isn’t really your thing. Your team is happy to have you; it’d be rude not to show interest and pay attention. The abundant cliches and tropes leave little to the imagination, and already by the second act you have a major plot twist figured out, but you find ways to enjoy it. Most things become easier to bear with company.

By the end of the third act, couch commentary crawls to a halt, and scripted dialogue becomes muffled static. One by one the Quinx fall victim to drowsiness, with Shirazu being the last to fall asleep. Their bodies go limp, slumping against one another in strange positions.

“That good, huh?” you sarcastically ask no one. “I’d have to agree.”

The night grows quieter, softening to a lull of background noise and slowed breathing. Moonlight pools onto the floor, overriding the TV as the current source of light. A chill creeps in from howling wind, so you pull the blankets up over the others before yourself. Picture-perfect comfort.

A tingle in your lower back urges you to stretch and extend your arms behind your head, but you unexpectedly bump them into something solid. Your heart skips. What if you accidentally knocked something over? You’re about to turn in your chair to check when something takes hold of your shirt cuff, and with a hard yank you’re spun around, face to face with—

“Ah-”

That gleaming red could belong to no other.

The shock kicks your reflexes into overdrive and you pull your wrist free, leaving your arm raised. Tensed, defensive. But you know you can’t cause a scene with the Quinx so closeby. He planned this.

Save for shorter, fatter kagune, Mukade’s visage remains largely the same. After a brief, uneventful staredown, you lower your arm. He grins and sinks to a kneel against the back of your chair, resting his head atop folded arms. You lean away as the beak of his mask enters your personal space.

“What do you want?” you demand in a forced hush.

He lazily props his head up on one hand, reaching out to you with the other. You flinch, regrettably.

He draws out a single low laugh. “So afraid.”

You stay silent, relaxing your muscles and allowing him to poke your shirt collar. Can’t fuel his contempt. Can’t let him be right.

His uneven nail scratches your skin through the material, catching on a fold and scraping down your collarbone. It’s unpleasant, but you’ve dealt with worse. His fingers crawl to your neck, feeling around ridges of muscle and vein.

“Here,” he croons, hand splayed across a quickening pulse.

He has no temperature.

“I could, right here…”

He brings his other hand over, wrapping both around your neck and digging nails further in. It’s like vinyl cloth: no warmth, no cool, no nothing. You struggle to swallow. Your mouth opens, compelled to speak despite a mind as fuzzy as the background noise.

“You won’t.”

His grip slackens. You don’t stop.

“If you did, what would become of you?”

Something akin to a whimper emits his agape mouth, his facial muscles twitching.

“No, no, no no no,” he objects, tone rising.

“Mu-”

His fingers rapidly close around your neck, cutting off all air.

“It’s mine!” he wails, leaping over the chair onto you, full force bringing you square against the floor. “Sasaki Haise!”

Your eyes vibrate, vision cutting to black with the impact of your head to the hardwood slats. Limbs and hands and fingers and sensations assault your body during what feels like an eternity. Chants of “Sasaki Haise” melt into “Sassan,” “Sensei,” “Maman,” and you know you can open your eyes again and breathe. It’s safe.

The Quinx hover around you, supporting your head with something cushy. You roll your head back to acknowledge Saiko, whose thighs angle perfectly for your cranium. Her sleepy eyes glitter with oncoming tears.

“We found you on the floor, Maman,” she hiccups.

“There was a _thud_ and suddenly you were, well, here,” Mutsuki elaborates. "You looked hurt."

Shirazu crouches closer, inspecting the area. “Yeah, I mean, I guess we were kinda asleep, but we woke right up to help. Took ya a bit to open your eyes.”

You blink into awareness, nervous system regulating itself for proper composure.

“Ah, aah aha,” you laugh nervously, “I must’ve fallen off the chair in my sleep.”

They stare at you, at the placement of your hands, but ultimately accept it and help you up to one of the couches. Saiko situates herself next to you, as closely as possible, using your arm as a pillow. You expect as much from her. The two of you share a familial bond, though you’re not sure why or how it formed, but it doesn’t really matter. It just comes naturally, and no one takes issue with it. What you don’t expect is Mutsuki to follow suit, using the short team member like an armrest. Even Shirazu joins in, albeit reluctantly, bringing the blankets back over everyone and reaching an arm out on the couch behind the three of you.

“So, uh,” he pipes up, “since we all apparently fell asleep from this amazing flick, why don’t we switch to something else?”

You all chatter in agreement, letting him switch the input on the remote to regular cable. With no real interest in the active channels, you all settle on a variety show, hooting and hollering (and sometimes wincing) at the challenges endured by contestants. The mood transitions from gloomy to bright, lighthearted distractions easily lifting your spirits.

As the show goes on, you allow your eyes to wander about, even if you shouldn’t. You discover him quickly, even though you don’t want to. Aren’t exactly trying to. He pulls your gaze to the top of the stairs like a poltergeist, focusing you in on his mask’s ominous red orb. It’s larger this time, adorning a grotesque mask that leaves no room for the rest of his face. His kagune envelope him, keeping him entirely too still in place. Like a sniper observing its target.

A clicking behind you knocks your line of sight away to the main door. Urie walks in with a mumbled announcement, faint snowflakes dusting his black figure. He shakes his head of the powdered stuff, unraveling his clothing piece by piece. He doesn’t seem to notice everyone until he steps into the atrium, stopping dead in his tracks and staring back. There’s an unbearable silence as everyone shifts weights under the blankets.

“Welcome back, Urie-kun,” you greet.

He nods once, then glances at the TV and, seemingly dissatisfied with the content, pivots away.

“If you need me, I’ll be in my room,” he states, continuing toward the stairs.

You follow him with your eyes. Mukade is nowhere to be found.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The winter chill dissipates under the blankets.

Later, from your bed, in your room so lately wrought with bitter cold, you find solace in warmth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months later and here it is...haha....chapter 2! :'^)  
> This time, we have some Quinx and CCG interaction. Yayy...I'm sorry it took so long. I work many hours...
> 
> Comments and critiques always welcome. I try to stick to canon as much as possible, so if there's an error in names, titles, etc., please tell me!
> 
> Next chapter will have a little more SasaMuka time... ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Later~


	3. ᵃ̲̝ͫˢ̮̐ᵗ͇͍̂ͥ̽ʳ̳̤͇̱͎̗̣ͩ͌́̚ᵃ̼͕̺̻͚͇̎ͥͅˡ̠̘̉̊̒̉̊

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ( ... )

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Languid. Hazy.

Hardly there, but you feel it start.

“...se.”

A serpent at your feet, moving as you do.

“...ai...”

Shifts and shapes itself into proper form. A familiar creature born of thick scales.

“...aise.”

Secretions coat your being through thin sleepwear. Viscous. Tepid.

It doesn't particularly disgust you.

“Hai...se.”

A knee at yours, then a hand, somewhere. Travels. Pins you down yet floats above your skin. 

Too close yet too far away. Focus.

“Haise.”

His voice, garbled. Muffled. Underwater, or the water itself? So warm…

“Look at me.”

You must. Your head moves on its own.

No mask, no eyes. Yet, staring into yours. The first time he’s shown his face.

A veil of white to complement a black suit. A wedding without a vow. A funeral without a body.

The darkness of his hollowed orbs peeks beyond light threads.

His smile, softer than the usual impish grin. Should be scared, but, it’s inviting.

 “Want…”

 You or him?

Kagune squirm, like you. Everything heightened under his shifting weight. Be still.

“You want—”

Hands and arms reach for you, begging for you. You think. It really feels that way. It really feels…

A jolt; elbows join, lowered to you. Pressed against you. Warm, warm.

“—this—”

His lower half collides with yours, mounting and affixing to your tangle of mass.

Tendrils act as extremities, slither their way up your sides. Torn fabric paid no mind.

“—right?”

Sinister black holes and mischievous white pearls meet you, sparing no space between. Chest to chest.

A pulsating electricity surges through you, washes over you from the source. Down there.

Is he right?

Answer him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Nothing but a tinny squeak. And laughter but, ah, that’s his, isn’t it?

“Oh, Haise.”

Floods your ears.

Haise.

It’s different when he says it.

“That’s no good.”

What is?

Can’t speak.

“Don’t you want to rest?”

A feeler at your cheek. No, his lips, soft, soft. Wet.

“I can take care of you.”

How?

“I can save you.”

Liar.

It would only mean your end. Sasaki Haise and all that was built. Erased.

Like him.

“You just need to accept me.”

His lips move from spot to spot, a wet trail left on your face.

Moving, dancing across your skin.

“Accept me and rest”

Squirming ceases.

Maybe, just this once…

It doesn’t mean anything if it’s here, right?

“Haise.”

Mouths connect. Anxious. Yours is much too dry.

Tongues breach, explore. Hums trapped desperately in your throat.

“Good...”

You push for more, unsated. Cravings swarming your fuzzy head.

How embarrassingly youthful of you.

“Haise, Haise.”

A mantra in your mouth, spilling out onto your neck in whispers.

Muscles spasm against bared teeth. Fine points upon incisors and canines digging into flesh.

Not an ounce of pain. Only the opposite.

Shameful.

“Aha...”

Hot air flashes over the area. Moist. He laughs and laughs.

“How filthy.”

Wet and hot and moist and warm and slick and sopping. Throbbing.

Hands discover your jugular, wrap around its cage excitedly. The pressure shoots out, down to your core.

“You’re so filthy, Haise.”

He pushes up, away, looms over you. Observing. Somehow, affectionate.

The dim room can’t hide the flush on his face.

You want to touch it.

“Accept me.”

You need to.

“Haise.”

Heavy limbs can’t reach him.

His torso sways, rocks towards and away from you.

You just want to feel him. The bow of his sides. The chiseled line directing his hips to firm thighs.

“Look...at me.”

You already do.

Here, in your headspace. At work, in your office.

Alone, in your, room.

“Say my name.”

Confessed secrets to pillows and bitten sheets.

“Ah, Haise…”

He locks into place atop your lap. Sets your soul aflame.

Slides down, down. Eases in.

He fits so well. Envelops you without even trying.

“Ah...ahn…”

  
  
Breathing. Rising and falling.

 

Coils overheat in your stomach.

  


“Ah...n...”

  
  


Panting. Up and down.

  
  
  


It’s there, so close.

  
  
  
  


“...ahn…”

  


A strange sound, elsewhere.

  
  


Wait, no.

  
  
  
  


There’s no need to be so quiet.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“...an…”

  
  
  
  
  


No, no.

  
  
  
  
  


Don’t disappear.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“...sa...n.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Please.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“...assan…”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Not yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
